The fires of a modest valour fluttered in her cheeks, and she pieced out
his sentence: "With all my life's esteem." But she was a woman, and she
added: "But I am not young now, and I am very poor."

"Barbara," he said; "I am not rich and I am old; but you, you have not
changed; you are beautiful, as you always were."

The moment was crucial. He stepped towards her, but her eyes held him
back. He hoped that she would speak, but she only smiled sadly. He
waited, but, in the waiting, hope faded, and he only said, at last, in a
voice of new resolve grown out of dead expectancy: "Your brother--is he
well?"

"I hope so," she somewhat painfully replied. "Is he in Australia?"

"Yes. I have not seen him for years, but he is here." As if a thought
had suddenly come to him, he stepped nearer, and made as if he would
speak; but the words halted on his lips, and he turned away again. She
glided to his side and touched his arm. "I am glad that you trust me,"
she faltered.

"There is no more that need be said," he answered. And now, woman-like,
denying, she pitied, too. "If I ever can, shall--shall I send for you
to tell you all?" she murmured.

"You remember I told you that the world had but one place for me, and
that was by your side; that where you are, Barbara--"

"Hush, oh hush!" she interrupted gently. "Yes, I remember everything."